


Read Between The End Of The Lines

by SparklyFiend



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Endgame compliant, Fix-it fic, M/M, Road-trip of Misery, This is not an anti-Steve fic - but it’s not thrilled with him, let my centuries old boyfriends be fucking happy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-02-04 08:59:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18601285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparklyFiend/pseuds/SparklyFiend
Summary: Bucky used to think he understood what Steve was going to do when he returned the Infinity Stones.Bucky used to think he understood Steve.Funny what time-travel can do.





	1. Chapter 1

Bucky has a catalogued understanding ~~~~ ~~~~of the many kinds of quiet there can be.  Some from his first life, some unshakeable bone-deep senses from his forgotten life with HYDRA, some from his most current life in Wakanda.  The Wakandan quiet was currently his favourite, most likely to be interrupted by livestock, the children playing, or Shuri coming to share some ungodly teenage dramedy on Netflix.

Even with a favourite kind of quiet, though, Bucky doesn’t trust any of them.  He’s too busy waiting for a hitch in Steve’s breath, for a bullet ringing out in the dark, for a mission he can’t refuse, for some knowledge he’s afraid to receive.  It’s the final kind of quiet he’s aware of as he sits in solitude in his guest cabin after the funeral. Pepper said today was a day for celebration, not bitterness, and that had been a delivered as a mission he couldn’t refuse. 

He’s enjoying the view of the lake, the cicadas singing in the background and a soft breeze blowing, when he hears footsteps outside.  He knows it’s not an active threat - not here, not today - but his stomach knots and he comforts himself with the knowledge that he doesn’t need weapons to be armed nonetheless.

“Buck?”  It’s Steve.  He wishes that felt more reassuring.

“Door’s open,” Bucky says automatically because the door’s always open for Steve, and wonders why his entrance feels like it’s about to close. 

Steve appears in the doorframe, filling the space but looking uncharacteristically (for the last seventy years, at least) small in sweatpants and a t-shirt.  He’s carrying the Infinity Case, which he looks at fixedly before raising his eyes to meet Bucky’s gaze with a furrowed brow.

Fuck.  Okay, Bucky guesses they’re doing this.

“Well, come on, sit,” he says a little stiffly, gesturing to the edge of the bed.  “You’re making the place look a mess.”

“And hey, I wouldn’t want to be taking your job, would I?” Steve says by way of a joke, but neither of them laugh.

Steve sighs and toes his shoes off before he takes a seat next to Bucky. There’s a good six inches of space between them and Bucky’s pretty sure that’s an innate instinct telling him that, no marksman or assassin training about it.  There’s a maudlin thought about that poking at the edges of Bucky’s brain, and he refuses to acknowledge it. Instead, he shrugs his head towards the aluminum case sitting on the floor between them.

“You made sure you’ve got everything?  Time, Soul, Mind, Reality, Space, Power, change of underwear?”  That maudlin thought prods more forcefully at Bucky’s brain and he allows himself a small, sad laugh.  “You always were good at packing light.”

“Buck,” Steve starts, then sighs, scrubs a hand through his hair, and scuffs a toe against the floor.

“I’m not mad, y’know,” Bucky says, and it’s not totally true because he doesn’t want this to happen, but it’s not his right to be mad about it.

Some guys don’t deserve happy endings.

“You deserve a happy ending, Stevie,” he says instead, and Steve looks a bit stricken at that, and Bucky just shrugs.

“You know how Captain America’s all about being noble?” Steve says, after a beat, and Bucky allows himself a chuckle and an eyeroll.

“I’ve heard, yeah.”

“I’m not being noble, and I am definitely being selfish, but I could be with her, and I know it’s not fa-”

Bucky squeezes Steve’s thigh sharply with his metal hand, enough to cut him off mid-flow.  He’s not going to sit here and watch him beat himself up. Saving Steve from being beaten up is his job, after all.

“You’re not Captain America, you’re Steve Rogers.  You’re allowed to want things. You’ve always wanted her.  I get it.” He lets out a long breath. “I just … I thought I might get to have you instead.”

He moves to let go of Steve’s leg, but feels Steve’s hand settle onto his, holding him in place.

“Bucky.”  Steve says his name like it’s causing him pain, and Bucky flinches a little.

“I get it,” Bucky says again, risking a look up at Steve and then wishing he hadn’t.

They sit in silence again for a short while.  This one is broken by a hitch in Steve’s breath and Bucky isn’t sure he wouldn’t prefer it being broken by a gunshot.

“I’d still have you both, if I could, you know,” Steve murmurs and Bucky _does_ know, but of all the ways their lives could have gone, he doesn’t think that would ever have happened, and he ended up in the future with wizards and aliens.  “I’m still with you to the end of the line.”

“End of the timeline, maybe,” Bucky snipes, and it’s Steve’s turn to wince.  “‘m sorry,” he apologises, and he is sorry, but he’s sad and his heart hurts, and this is why Steve is the one who deserves the happy ending.

The silence falls once more, and Bucky sort of wants to leave - except it’s his room, and he’s definitely not going to kick Steve out - and then he feels the pressure of Steve’s thumb brushing over his metal knuckles.

“Did I,” Steve starts, then allows himself a little chuckle before continuing, “the whole time travel thing, did I get round to explaining it?”

Bucky laughs as well, because this conversation is ridiculous as much as it’s painful.  “I’m pretty sure you told me you beat yourself up and saved the world because particles - I think you glossed over the details.”

“Pym Particles,” Steve corrects him, like that’s the important part.  His thumb is still stroking Bucky’s hand though. “But okay - long story short, we could change some things, but not others, not important things that had already happened… _have_ already happened, this might be why I didn’t explain it, it’s confusing.”

Steve pauses once more and swallows heavily.  Bucky squeezes his leg again, much softer this time.  “I’m listening, Stevie.”

“Peggy’s dead,” Steve says softly, his voice a little thick.  “Nothing can change that, but if I - _when_ I go back, I’ll only have to lose her once.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, and he thinks that’s the end of it, the end of the conversation, the end of the line, whatever, but Steve reaches across and tilts his chin up, forcing Bucky to meet his eyes.

“I,” Steve says slowly and deliberately, “have already had to watch you die twice and not be able to help.  I know I’m not being noble, and I know I’m being selfish, but I cannot go through that again.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, because he’s lost himself several times, but he’s never lost Steve and now he’s sort of forgotten how to breathe.

“I still love the fucking bones of you, jerk,” and then Steve leans in, fingers still on Bucky’s chin, and presses a soft kiss against his temple, his cheek, his lips, and then brings Bucky’s hand up to his mouth and kisses that too.

“Punk,” Bucky returns, and feels Steve’s lips curve upwards against his fingertips.  “Stay,” he says softly. “Tonight, I mean, just tonight, just-”

Steve cuts him off once more by pulling him close, hand cupped around the back of his neck.  “I was always going to stay the night, Buck,” Steve murmurs against the shell of his ear, and they stay that way for a little while, their breaths and heartbeats the only thing breaking the early morning silence which has fallen over the cabin.

Bucky’s almost asleep when he feels Steve jerk next to him, staring at him wide-eyed and suddenly unhappy, and Bucky doesn’t know what’s going to come out of the silence.

“End of the timeline, you said.”  Steve says slowly.

“Yeah, I’m sorry, that-” Bucky starts, but Steve still looks horrified.

“Buck, I’m not gone forever,” Steve garbles out, words running into each other.  “I’m… I was always going to come back.”

Bucky feels the cogs turning slowly in his head but he can’t fully make sense of what Steve’s saying.  For his part, Steve sits up on his elbow looking at him like he’s willing him to get there faster. “...goddamn time travel,” Bucky says, finally realising what Steve means.

“I wasn’t… I was never leaving you. I’m just gonna be in a very different time zone for a while,” Steve says, and Bucky has never been more relieved while simultaneously wanting to punch someone.

“It would,” Bucky says slowly, “have been nice for you to explain that before I waited to say ‘I love you’ one last time.”  He huffs, and settles his head against Steve’s on the pillow. “Time-travelling jerk.”

“But I’m your time travelling jerk,” Steve murmurs, and Bucky’s not going to argue with that.

They lie in a half-embrace for either minutes or hours and Bucky supposes it doesn’t matter anymore because time-travel, and maybe this is the least ridiculous twist their lives could take, given their history.

It’s quiet, the sun’s coming up, there’s maybe an inch between him and Steve.  Bucky wraps his flesh arm around Steve’s torso and closes his eyes.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It shouldn’t come as a surprise to Bucky that Steve’s plan involving experimental science turns out differently than expected.
> 
> Shouldn’t, but does.

On the outside, Bucky knows he looks calm, wistful maybe.  The seconds of gut-wrenching panic as Steve hadn’t returned melted away into something else, something new.  Something, as it happens, old.

He watches oddly content as Sam gets to take up the mantle of Captain America.  Bucky has always know he would eventually, Steve had mentioned it before the battle of Wakanda. 

Before everything.

Before Steve had aged seventy years while he had aged five seconds.

He’s not calm.  He’s silent, brain on pure static while he concentrates on staying upright.  He’s not demanding an answer from Steve, because if he starts he might never stop.  He gives Sam a melancholy smile when the other man shoots him a glance, and makes his way over to Steve.

“Better have been a damned good dance,” he says quietly and pulls Steve close, presses his stubble against Steve’s suddenly soft skin.  He swallows hard, presses his lips gently against Steve’s jaw. Static flares in his head as Steve gives him an long appraising look with his new old eyes. 

“I don’t kiss and tell, Buck, I’m a gentleman,” Steve’s new old eyes sparkle because they both know that’s a lie on so many counts.  There’s something else Steve’s not telling him, he’s sure of it. Though, that might be the residual shock and white noise of Steve being back, Steve being this. 

A weird, almost hysterical thought bubbles inside his brain: is he, the hundred year old sniper, being ageist?

”You came back,” Bucky says, ignoring his brain. “Wasn’t sure.”

“I promised you, Buck.  And, uh, I’ve got things to do,” Steve says cagily, and Bucky doesn’t trust it because the only thing worse than a too-honest Steve Rogers is a Steve Rogers hiding something from him. 

“Golf, I’m guessing?  Old people still like golf, right?” Sam steps in with a grin and Bucky never thought he’d be grateful for Sam breaking up a moment between him and Steve.

He’s probably lived through enough nevers that he should stop predicting them.

“Golf is goddamn awful,” Steve replies cheerfully.  “And I’m not taking up shuffleboard either.”

“Plans,” Bucky presses, and Steve’s brow furrows a little, and Bucky realises he’s been seeing Steve pull that face since 1930.  He wants to punch him, pull him close and then maybe punch him again.

Actually, first he wants to punch that voice in his head that’s cut through the static, the one suggesting Steve’s getting his affairs in order. 

“I have plans with Bruce.”

“Does Bruce know about these plans?” Sam asks, as their green friend tentatively hovers on the fringe of their conversation. 

“I-“ Bruce pauses, looks at Steve with a slow recognition dawning across his face.  “I do, actually. Speaking of, Cap, sorry, _Steve_ ,” he apologises as his eyes dart to the shield in Sam’s hands, “we should go, or we’ll be late.” 

“Who makes plans at for 2pm?” Sam wonders aloud, and Bucky’s glad that he’s not the only one finding this all a little wrong. 

“I get tired a bit easier these days,” Steve says almost easily and Bucky and Sam allow the lie, make jokes about meeting up for a Blue Plate special because they’re both jerks and because it makes Steve laugh.

 They wince at how old that laugh is now, and Steve (always the good guy, right, punk?) pretends not to notice.

 “I’m coming back,” he tells them both as he pulls them into a still-strong embrace, and brushes his lips against Bucky’s cheek more like a ghost than a promise.

Bucky watches Steve climb the steps into Bruce’s Humvee, steady on his feet, but slow, and Bucky raises his hand in a salute as Steve looks back over his shoulder fondly.  There’s still something his new old eyes aren’t telling him.

He walks over to Sam and Bruce, who are clearly having a conversation side-stepping whatever it is they are Not Talking About.

“What was Steve doing, when we were -”  Sam snaps his fingers, somehow pantomimes dust - “when we _weren’t_?  Anything I can keep ticking over?  I’m kind of new to this gig.”

“He was running a support group, actually,” Bruce replies, and Bucky holds in a snort despite himself.  Trust Steve to take Sam’s disappearance and try to make something positive from it. Fuckin’ Steve. “A support group for people who lost The Vanished,” and Bruce snaps his good hand, pantomimes dust.  “It was to help people move on.”

Bucky stops smiling.   _Fucking_ Steve.

“Huh,” Sam says eventually.  “Guess I’m not needed for that.”

“I’ve got your number,” Bruce reminds them both with a shake of his plus-sized Starkphone, and then he follows Steve into the modified SUV, driving off towards their plans.

Whatever those might be.  Whatever plans might preclude Bucky and Sam.

Whatever.

“We’re not seeing him again,” Sam says, dropping the shield at his feet.

“He came back,” Bucky says with all the conviction he can muster, and the words taste like dust in his mouth.

“Uh huh,” Sam returns, sounding just as convinced.   “Come on, we’ve gotta make plans.”

“Plans?”

“I don’t know if you noticed, but _I_ just got a promotion, and Captain America doesn’t plan on moping in the woods for the rest of his life.

“Really?  That’s how it is?” Bucky asks, not yet sure why this means he’s got to help Sam make plans when he has none of his own.  Moping in the woods seems pretty good to him.

“‘S how it is,” Sam says with a small smile, but it’s one of determination more than anything else.

Bucky quirks an eyebrow.  “So where do you plan on moping for the rest of your life?” It’s a fine line between hilarious and painful, and Sam shoves him in the chest, but there’s no malice behind it.

“That’s what we have to plan, you Metallic Asshole,” and he sounds like the Sam that Bucky remembers from before, fighting in cars and shitty diners.  

Bucky likes this Sam - hell, likes Sam in general - but this Sam makes him think that maybe he can do this.  Maybe he doesn’t get a choice either way. He sighs, straightens up. “Where to, Cap?” 

— 

They wait for three days.  Three days on a dead friend’s property is too long. 

“He’s not coming back,” Sam reminds Bucky, and Bucky nods. 

“I’ll pack up my things,” he says.  They have plans to make. Plans that don’t involve moping in the woods.

 They say their farewells to the other Avengers - Bucky gives out his number, a perfunctory “if you ever need a semi-stable hundred year old man” gesture - and to Pepper.  He catches himself on “if you need me for an-“ because no, Pepper definitely doesn’t need a semi-stable hundred year old man, but she pulls him in for a gentle hug anyway.

Morgan Stark stands behind her mother’s legs, and Bucky’s hit with a strong pang of _she looks like Howard._  He wiggles his metal fingers at her when they leave, and she giggles.

—

Sam and Bucky drive, because what else are they going to do.  A nice, miserable, we’ve-both-lost-a-best-friend road trip.

So they drive.

They ride in silence, neither amicable nor uncomfortable but more weighted with uncertainty.  They aren’t mourning though, not yet.They skirt past New York on the way to wherever they’re going, and that’s when Sam puts on the radio - anything to distract from the George Washington Bridge.  They spend a good 40 miles behind a garbage truck, and Bucky buzzes his window down. “AW, JERSEY STILL SMELLS LIKE JERSEY” he hollers sarcastically as they cross the water.

Sam childlocks the windows from the steering wheel and snorts. 

That’s a small victory, Bucky will take it.

Somewhere in Pennsylvania (and that is roughly how Bucky views all of Pennsylvania, has done for ninety years), Bucky and Sam switch off on driving, with Sam futzing with the XM radio until he settles cheerfully on something - _Gotta love an oldies station!  Man, I miss this era of Britney_ \-  and they travel on with Sam mumble-singing under his breath, keeping time against armrest of the car.  Bucky doesn’t tire particularly easily and they drive through day, dusk and well into the night. He’s starting to keep an eye out for a motel, a parking lot, something when Sam lets out a delighted laugh at the start of a song. 

“Oh shit!  Hell hath no fury like a scorned white boy,” he chuckles, and starts singing along instantly.  Bucky thinks he’s heard this song before, Shuri working on his arm while YouTube shuffles in the background.

_“Where’s your picket fence, love?  Where’s that shiny car, did it ever get you-”_

Sam stops, turns off the radio.

One beat.  Two beats. Three beats.  By the time Bucky’s counted to double digits, he swallows.  “Motel?” he suggests.

“Motel near a bar,” Sam says with determination.

They’re just at the tip of Lake Michigan, and Bucky navigates the roads until they encounter not quite a Motel 6, not quite the Ritz either.  But Twin Pines Motel has a bar across the street, and Bucky sits gamely and nurses a beer with Sam, then another, then some more. 

“‘M not mourning,” Sam insists, lips still in contact with an obscenely overpriced Budweiser.

“Didn’t say anything,” Bucky says steadily.  “But then-” 

“Yeah, not really your thing.”  Sam’s breath ghosts over the opening of the bottle and summons a reedy mournful note from it.

“I’m not mourning either,” Bucky says, three beers later as the bartender flicks a weary eye at the clock and he decides they’ve had enough.  Budweiser still tastes like backwash and he’s not chasing a beer buzz. “C’mon,” he adds, jerking his head towards the door.

“Not mourning,” Sam echoes as they leave the bar, and Bucky knows he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I’m _pissed,_ ” he clarified.  “I’m pissed that he went, I’m pissed he came back, I’m pissed that he went _again_.” 

“You shouldn’t go to bed mad,” Sam says pragmatically, and Bucky just knows that’s his VA voice coming out.  “Now, I know you’re not one for… saying anything, but talk it out, find some junk on Netflix, just don’t fall asleep dwelling on it.”

“I’m good at dwelling,” Bucky says and he’s fully aware that his tone’s sullen.  “But I’ve gone to bed mad at Steve before, slept the bile outta my system and we always sorted it.” 

“Barnes,” Sam says, “what if you don’t have the time to fix it?”  It’s not cruel, but it still hits Bucky like a gut punch. Steve came back, Steve is a centenarian, Steve left again.  Steve might not get a chance to come back, even if he wants to. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” he says on an undertone breath and it sounds more like a snarl.

 “Fuck,” Sam agrees. He jangles the key to their room in the air, throws it at Bucky just to watch him snatch it from nowhere in the dark with his newest arm.  “Go wash up. Just give me five.”

 “Longer than ten, I’m locking you out,” Bucky says amicably, leaving Sam to try and give himself his own pep talk.  It’s not that Bucky doesn’t want to help, but ‘ _fuck_ ’ is all he’s got, and it didn’t help him any.

He kicks out of his jeans and into his sweats, finds the motel WiFi with the intention of putting on an Attenborough documentary - it’s soothing, reminds him of Falsworth - when he smiles wryly at the password

_Network: TwinPinesMotel_

_Passcode: INtoTheWoods_

Another night moping about Steve in the woods then.

He pauses before opening Netflix, and opens his messages.   _Bruce, if you get the chance, tell Old Man Rogers this is my number.  Figure he might have forgotten it over the last seventy years._

He hears Sam come in and gives him a quick once over: eyes wet, but not threatening to spill.  He goes to the bathroom, stares at his own face while he brushes his teeth and gives Sam a couple more minutes.  It’s going to be a long night.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, this standalone learnt how to walk, and ran away from me? Enjoy me breaking what I fixed! (The title for this was almost Mourning Wood for a very long time, so that lets you know the kind of shit I find funny.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long and (not-so) winding road, that leads to...? AKA Sam and Bucky still aren’t mourning, still don’t have plans, still don’t have Steve.

The long night ticks over into another long day, and they’re hungover - or Sam is at least - and miserable on the interstate for hours that drag past like molasses.   
  
They drive in silence, and Bucky still doesn’t trust any kind of quiet, but it’s better than the risk of the radio setting them off into feeling feelings again.  They’re not mourning. They’re just sitting in silence and not talking like two perfectly normal fire-forged friends.

The silence they’re sitting in is the kind that Bucky recognises from waiting for a mission to unfold - it’s oppressive and makes his skin itch, and there’s no way to be rid of it until the job is finished.  Bucky’s not even sure what the job  _ is _ .

“What’re we doing?” Bucky asks, around hour five on the I-80.

“Driving,” Sam says bluntly, “although we could pull off and visit The World’s Largest Gnome.”

Bucky squints out of the window into the sun and, huh,  _ World’s Largest Gnome, 7 miles _ , apparently.  He goes to call Sam a punk, but it dies on his tongue.  He’s not really used to having friends this time around, much less those he can call names.  Punk is Steve’s, will always be Steve’s. “Dick,” he mutters, and discovers with a small grin that that sits just fine.

“Dick yourself,” Sam retorts lightly.  “When I figure out what we’re doing, I’ll tell you.  I don’t have a damn clue. Figured you’ll tell me if I start driving in the wrong direction.  You’re like my GPS.”

“Dick,” Bucky grumbles again and they lapse back into quietness, but the silence sticks to his skin a little less.

\---

“I thought you’d maybe want to go to back to Wakanda,” Sam says around a mouthful of fries as they refuel at Five Guys.  “T’Challa would have you back.”

Bucky frowns, more at his burger than at Sam.

“What?” Sam asks, as Bucky tries to stare his food into submission.  “Talk to me, not your Double Double.”

“I thought about it,” Bucky says eventually, forehead still wrinkled.  “But Wakanda was sanctuary, rehab maybe. I need to start building myself up-”

“Not always relying on the kindness of strangers?” Sam interjects.  Bucky throws a napkin at him.

“But I thought,” Bucky continues, “the Wakandan Outreach Centre that Shuri runs, that’s a half-way house maybe?  It’s definitely not DC, definitely not Brooklyn…” Bucky tails off and focuses his attention back on his staring match with his lunch.  Even with his increased metabolism, he’s not hungry.

“Okay Blanche,” Sam says with a slow nod, “California it is.  And if that doesn’t work, we try something else.”

Bucky looks back up from the formica and hopes the burst of desperate gratitude he feels blooming in his stomach doesn’t show on his face.  “We?”   
  
Sam chuckles a little.  “Yeah, we. Look, I don’t know what the hell we’re doing, and Steve may have left me the shield, but he didn’t leave an instruction manual.  He just… left. So here we are, founding members of the  _ Steve Rogers Abandonment Club _ , and I’m sure as shit not going it alone.”  Sam pauses, kicks at Bucky’s instep. “Now eat your damn burger.

Bucky eats.

\---

The thing about this that’s gotten under Bucky’s skin the most is that what Sam said was right, it does feel like Steve abandoned them.

Steve doesn’t run from fights, Steve’s never known how to run from a fight, even though there were times that Bucky had wished he did.

Better the devil you know, it turns out.

But if Steve is running, and God knows it seems that way, then Bucky can’t understand  _ why _ .  Why come back only to leave, a brief  _ ‘here’s my shield, goodbye forever’ _ , it doesn’t make any damn sense.

It’s not as if Sam and Bucky would have turned him away - Steve being an actual nonagenarian would be an adjustment, but Bucky has fought in multiple battles shoulder-to-shoulder with a  _ tree. _  He knows how to adjust.  Cebisa, his therapist, has told him as much.

He even allows himself to daydream a little about this as he drives down the endless length of the I-80:  Sam and Steve fighting over the radio with both of Steve’s age-spotted hands covering the dial, Sam on Cap detail at some stupid press junket while Steve and Bucky whispered jokes at each other from the side of the stage, going home at night and Bucky falling asleep with his arm curled around Steve’s older frame.

He shakes his head, and the car veers minutely on the straight stretch of asphalt.

“Eyes on the road, Threepio,” Sam chides him, and Bucky frowns.  He doesn’t like Star Wars. Sue him, he’s met actual aliens and been frozen in carbonite, there is nothing new under the sun.  “You okay?” Sam asks, for when a friendly insult doesn’t roll off Bucky’s tongue.

“I’m adjusting,” Bucky says vaguely, and allows his shoulder-plates to whirr as he makes a show of rolling his neck.

“You and me both, man.”

—-

“...ask you something?” Sam asks, forcing Bucky to realise he’s been zoned out for at least an hour, which is probably bad driving and definitely bad road-trip etiquette.

“That’s always a loaded question,” Bucky says, staring sidelong at Sam.  “Okay, shoot,” he answers with a small nod.

“You and Steve,” Sam pauses, makes an abortive gesture with his hands, and Bucky gives him a humourless grin.

He knows this question, has known it for decades.

_ “You and Rogers are awful close, ain’tcha?” “Cap’s smiling a lot, guess you’re in the good books today Sarge?” “Кто такой Стив?” “Soldat, report.” “You two fucking?” _

“Me and Steve,” Bucky confirms, after a couple of minutes.  “Never had a name for it, but me and Steve.” He tilts his head to one side and does a little mental arithmetic.  “Since I was nineteen, coming up to ninety years.”

“I figured I knew,” Sam says somewhat warily, like he’s not sure if his next words will make Bucky wreck another of his cars.  It makes Bucky’s fingers tighten instinctively around the steering wheel. “Figured you don’t turn the world upside down if you don’t love someone.  But Bucky, your boyfriend of a hundred years-”

“My not-boyfriend, ninety years,” Bucky corrects, forces himself to relax his hold on the wheel as he hears the leather creaking ominously under his grip.

“Sorry,” Sam rolls his eyes theatrically enough that Bucky catches it in his peripheral vision.  “Your not-boyfriend of ninety years is acting like a friggin’ jerk.”

Bucky considers this.  Steve’s keeping secrets for whatever reason, Steve’s not letting him know what’s going on, and although it’s not pneumonia - God, he supposes it actually  _ could _ be - but Bucky’s been through this before, every winter of the Thirties.

“No,” he tells Sam eventually, with a wry grin.  “My not-boyfriend is acting like a goddamn punk.”

—-

His phone vibrates against his thigh while Sam’s filling the car, and he pulls it out of his pocket without really thinking.

It’s a picture of a blue plate stacked high with breakfast food, pancakes heavy with syrup and a mountain of crispy bacon on the side.  A gnarled hand is curled around a fork in the left corner, and the text accompanying the photo says  _ miss you _ .

His not-boyfriend is, always has been, and forever will be, a punk jerk asshole.

 


End file.
